“So, just for the record, can you please confirm you’re Simon Davis and you’re happy for me to record this interview.” My voice is clear, confident. I remember the relief I felt when I was at work during that time, the professionalism a protection against the other me, the me I tried to hide, the vulnerable father of a sick son.

“Yes.” Simon’s voice was just a whisper. He clears his throat, makes an effort to speak up. “Yes.”

“Can you tell me, please, in your own words, what happened on June the sixth ninety-eight, the day your son died.”

Simon’s voice is plain, almost matter-of-fact, as he talks, but I remember how his eyes darted around the café.

“It was Meg’s birthday, so I’d taken the Friday off work. I was an accountant back then. I know, hard to believe really, but I was. I’d booked us a weekend away at Port Raynor Beach. We were staying in the static caravan site there, I don’t know if it’s still going. You know it?”

I probably shrugged, less interested in this setting-the-scene stuff than what came after. Simon keeps talking.

“I’d heard about the beaches down there, how they’d be deserted even on a hot weekend in June. Meg used to tease me about being a boring accountant, so it was a good surprise. As soon as we got there, Danny wanted to go down to the beach, it was all he could talk about. He kept saying he was going to catch a whale in his little net.” Simon stops, clears his throat. “He loved whales, I don’t know why.”

“So you went to the beach?”

I wish I could smack myself for sounding impatient.

“We had a picnic on the beach.” Simon either doesn’t hear my irritation or it doesn’t bother him. “I’d bought a bottle of wine.”

Later, Meg claimed he’d been drunk.

“While I cleared away the picnic things, Meg went back up to the caravan to get Danny’s armbands. He was so excited.”

“Where was Danny at this point?”

“Splashing in the shallows. He kept shouting he’d seen a whale in the distance, on the horizon. I promised him we’d go out together, once his mum was back. He was a good boy, he didn’t mind waiting, just kept chattering away to himself and digging with his spade in the wet sand.”

“And then?” I ask. Simon clears his throat; a waitress calls out an order. “Then I saw those boys. They were only about eight, identical. I thought it was a bit odd they were on their own, running like hares down the path to the cove. Danny stopped digging. He loved older boys. I remember he stared at them, the sun shining behind him. I called the boys over, I wanted to make sure they were OK, they were shy, you know, didn’t want to talk to a stranger. They went crashing into the sea with Danny instead. They were all splashing about, having fun. Danny was laughing. I kept sorting out our stuff. It makes me sick now, knowing that was the last time I’d hear him laugh, that I was busy packing away our picnic rubbish at the moment he needed me the most.” Simon clears his throat again. “It was only a couple of minutes. I thought it was good for him to be playing with older boys, but when I looked up the brothers were splashing each other and I couldn’t see Danny—”